


tonight, tonight, get a little closer to you

by lanyon



Series: i've got your blood under my fingernails [4]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Community: ccbingo, M/M, it isn't easy being blue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-30 17:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/pseuds/lanyon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If you take all your clothes off, I’m not even going to try to stop you.”</p><p>“Coulson, you old dog.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	tonight, tonight, get a little closer to you

“If you take all your clothes off, I’m not even going to try to stop you.”  
  
“Coulson, you old dog.” Barton’s shivering and soaked through. He’s certainly nowhere near the more dangerous end of the hypothermia spectrum but he has started making dire predictions and drawing parallels to Scott’s expedition in the Antarctic. They’re in what fundamentally amounts to an ice-cave in the utter ass-end of nowhere in Iceland. “I can’t even raise my arm and you still want to see me naked.”  
  
It’s true. The injury part; Barton hasn’t quite figured out if Coulson actually does want to see him naked. His broken bone count has now overtaken Coulson’s and Barton is nothing if not competitive. His collarbone is definitely cracked and his shoulder is swollen. His thumb is dislocated, if not broken, too. Barton maintains that he didn’t actually fall. Glaciers are slippery fuckers, it’s true, but he didn’t lose his footing. He absolutely jumped.

 

Retrospect being what it is, it does seem rather daft to send a two-man operation on reconnaissance to Iceland when there are even the faintest, flimsiest rumours of Ice Giants. Coulson and Barton are only human. It’s funny that they're so often told that this is their strength. To err is human, they are told. Funny, thinks Barton, and he’s not shivering so much. To err is human and to forgive divine which mostly means that Coulson’s got to be superhuman. He forgives so much of Barton’s shit, even if Coulson-brand absolution comes with paperwork and 5am fitness drills. Sometimes it comes with a wry smile. He clutches Coulson’s fingers convulsively.

 

Coulson doesn’t even flinch, though he carefully peels Barton’s fingers away from his. He’s murmuring something now and Barton cracks open an eyelid. A side-effect of being on edge and on point for thirty hours straight is that when the opportunity to sleep presents itself, Barton’s inclined to seize the opportunity with both hands, broken thumbs and all. Of course, that could just be the hypothermia. Delusions aren’t uncommon in hypothermia, either, if Barton’s recollection of that mission in the Andes is accurate (which, to be fair, it isn’t, but the mission reports make interesting reading). Delusions are the only explanation for why Coulson is removing his hat, scarf and SHIELD-issue winter jacket. Barton’s lusted after this jacket even in New York, during the depths of winter, when Coulson arrives at HQ, pristine and unruffled and with only a slightly heightened colour in his cheeks to suggest that he’s been out in the subzero Manhattan crosswinds.

 

“You’re taking advantage of an injured man,” says Barton. His lips are numb and his words are slurred. That’s not good.

 

“Lie back and take it like a man.” Coulson is ridiculously careful as he wraps Barton up in the jacket and winds his scarf around Barton’s neck and jams the hat over his head and now all that can be seen of Barton’s face are his eyes. Hell, even his mouth is covered up so he can’t talk back (which is probably Coulson’s intent). Barton feels more alert now and it’s because instead of curling up in a cocoon of slumber, he’s got to worry about Coulson who’s sitting in a fucking cave in a fucking glacier on fucking Iceland with no fucking coat on and no clue when the rescue party’s going to arrive.

 

He can just about feel Coulson’s fingers wrapped around his forearm and he doesn’t have the heart to glare as Coulson slides in closer against his side. He tugs down the scarf just a little. It’s getting dark now but not so dark that he can’t see how their breath plumes together.

 

“Did you know that this is where Jules Verne set his _Journey to the Centre of the Earth_?” says Coulson. His chin’s on Barton’s shoulder now and Barton knows it’s for warmth and comfort because Coulson totally typifies the brothers-in-arms thing when they’re in the field. Barton leans in closer, too.

 

“When do you’ve time to _read_?” he asks. Though his words are muffled by layers of Coulson’s scarf, Coulson seems to understand him.

 

“When I’m being kept waiting,” says Coulson. He nudges Barton lightly. “And that includes twenty-odd hours spent in a tent on the Snæfellsnes waiting for you to make that damned call.” He pauses. "Why? Did you think I brought my knitting along?"

 

Barton can’t quite believe that Coulson brought a book on a mission except that it makes a certain amount of sense, too. “D’you think they’ll find us soon?” His temple rests against Coulson’s. “I only ask because I want your socks.”

 

Coulson laughs. The tip of his nose is cold and has somehow found its way against the skin next to Barton’s eye. “They’ll be here soon, Clint.”  
  
And Barton knows that they will be; welcome back to the Arctic Circle, Steve. Now please save us. He’ll even take Stark and the inevitable wise-cracking about sending a man to do a machine’s job. He can’t bring himself to care too much, though. “This is so much better than Scott’s expedition.”

 

“I swear, Barton, if you say ‘I may be some time’, SHIELD will officially disown you and I’ll take back my jacket.”

 

Coulson’s hand tightens around Barton’s arm, though, so he guesses he doesn’t really mean it.

**Author's Note:**

> +Feelschat, this is all your fault. Thank you for the wonderful encouragement.  
> +For the Bingo prompt "sharing clothing".  
> +Title from _Eyelids into Snow_ by Scullion.  
>  +Apologies to Alexander Pope and Jules Verne.


End file.
